


The Grief of Going On

by shewhoguards



Category: Queen's Thief - Megan Whalen Turner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-24
Updated: 2011-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-28 00:16:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/301654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shewhoguards/pseuds/shewhoguards
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“If the gods are real, they could have caught her!” The words were spat out with venom, and even the Minister of War flinched at their implication. “If it’s not just a story, if Eugenides is real and if thieves only fall if he lets them… he made that choice. Why did he make that choice? What did she ever do to deserve that?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Grief of Going On

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Idhren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idhren/gifts).



> Based after The Thief and before Queen of Attolia. Recipient - I HOPE you're Idhren24, I had problems finding you!

Gen was known for his ability to have tantrums – good, loud, long tantrums. But he’d never had one in a temple before, and usually they were aimed at a figure more solid than ‘the gods’. His father was dispatched to keep an eye on him before he broke something or, alternatively, got struck down by lightening. When it was Gen anything was possible.

When he reached the temple though, it seemed a relatively calm tantrum – at least by Gen’s usual standards. There were no crashes of tributes being thrown about; no shards of broken objects scattered on the floor.  There was just Gen, striding about furiously, as though his body held too much energy to be able to hold still. Occasionally he would turn to kick at a wall, but that seemed as violent as this particular rage was getting.

The Minister of War sat down and waited patiently. He knew his son. It shouldn’t take long. Gen wouldn’t rage to himself when there was someone else available to rage at.

Sure enough, almost as soon as Gen realised he wasn’t alone he came stamping over, blazing with an inner fury.

“A fine scene you’re making of yourself there,” his father observed, cooling ice against Gen’s fire. “Did you fear the priests might have got bored in your absence?”

“How can you be so calm about it?” Gen demanded, throwing himself down on the seat next to him, wiry body still tense with rage. “Why aren’t _you_ even angrier than I am?”

“If you’d tell me what you’ve got yourself angry about, perhaps I could tell you.” His father raised his eyebrows at him enquiringly. “You know I don’t go in for guessing games.”

 _“If the gods are real, they could have caught her!”_ The words were spat out with venom, and even the Minister of War flinched at their implication. “If it’s not just a story, if Eugenides is _real_ and if thieves only fall if he lets them… he made that choice. _Why_ did he make that choice? What did she ever do to deserve that?”

For a moment, Gen wasn’t the adult the Minister of War knew, forever getting himself into trouble and out again before anyone even realised. He was a six year old boy, wide-eyed and lost, not understanding as people tried to explain that his mother wasn’t ever coming home.

He hadn’t even cried, his father remembered now. He’d just waited – for months, it felt like – for what they were saying to be disproved. Waited until his father had snapped and tried to break through that shell, being purposely cruel almost, feeling as if only when Gen had broken and wept like the rest of them they would all be able to move on.

 It hadn’t been a pleasant time for anyone. It was never enjoyable to see a grown man rage against a six year old boy, and it was still less so to be one of the participants. It had gone on… too long. Long enough that the boy’s grandfather and taken young Gen under his wing. He’d never been sure Gen had entirely forgiven him for it. He knew he hadn’t truly forgiven himself.

“Why aren’t you _angry?”_ Gen demanded now, almost piteous underneath his rage.

“Gen,” his father replied slowly, and it wasn’t often that anyone heard that gentle tone from the Minister of War. “Don’t you think I did my raging against the gods enough at the time?” He’d never been a man for hugging, never been much of a one for physical contact, but now he rested a hand against his son’s back.

“But they weren’t _real_ then!” Which wasn’t quite accurate – if they were real now then they’d always been real, they just hadn’t known it at the time. “I hadn’t met them!”

“And of course, everyone else’s emotions must centre around what you have or haven’t done.” There was a dryness to his father’s tone, despite the sympathy. “Gen, what does this change, at the end of things?”

“It changes everything!” Gen declared passionately. “It.. it changes _intent!_ It’s the difference between an accident, and someone… someone looking away when they might have pulled her back up.”

“But it doesn’t bring her back,” his father said. “And will your gods respond to you now any more than they responded to me then?”

“I… don’t know.” The words were almost a snarl, almost a sob. Gen leant forward, resting his face in his hands, shoulders shaking for a moment.

Just a little boy grieving for his mother. Finally, the grief his father had tried to reach some twenty years ago. Somehow, he felt no satisfaction on seeing it now.

“It does no good to rage against the gods, son,” he said heavily. “You can shout for years and get no answer. I learnt that long ago.”

“I just…” Gen breathed hard for a moment, trying to keep his voice steady. “I just want them to be _sorry!”_

His father’s laugh was rough, and had two decades of pain buried inside it. “Because you’re so much better at that than your namesake.  Let it go, boy. I’ve learned to.“ He clasped his son’s shoulder tightly for a moment, drawing him close. For a moment the two were together – closer, perhaps, than they’d been in twenty years. “So the gods exist and don’t care. Seems to me you’re no worse off than if they didn’t exist at all. Maybe better if they’re taking a personal interest in you. But don’t waste all this rage on them, son. There are better things in the world to be angry at.”

A too-slippery tile, guttering which broke when grasped at, his own wife for being so foolish to take such risks when her life and leave a family of hurting small boys behind her – these things, he had learnt, did not care if you were angry at them. And small boys, small boys did care if you were angry at them… which was why you shouldn’t rage at them to start with. Such a pity he’d learnt that lesson too late.

In the quiet of the temple, he pulled Gen to him and hoped belatedly to make up the ground he had lost.

 

 ***

 

Above them, far far above them, the gods watched the scene in silence.

“You could have lost him then,” Moira said finally, quietly.

“I know,” Eugenides agreed softly. “But what choice did we have? If he was to be the man we needed him to be, the man who would change everything…” He shook his head, a note of pleading almost in his voice. “He was needed to change the world, and there was no other way to ensure he would grow up to be that man. What choice did _I_ have?”

There are two rules concerning communication with the gods, and both are hard, painful rules. The first, as many have discovered, is that no matter how you may rage no god will ever ask for your forgiveness. The second, which is almost a harsher rule in its way, is that, no matter how they may wish it, no god may ask for your understanding. That is not the way of gods.

Below, in the temple, Gen wept. Above, helplessly, Eugenides watched and knew there was nothing he could do about it.


End file.
